


bright like burning

by Anonymous



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: (before episode 27), (or kidnapping! yknow!), Canon Compliant, Character Study, Damien's Abandonment Issues, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Mark's Anger Issues, Missing Scene, Nightmares, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Tension, Unnavigable Emotions, just! a weird night!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 04:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15307188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Four scenes from a night that didn't go the way Damien wanted.Or maybe it did.Sometimes, wanting isn't so simple.





	bright like burning

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this ask](http://thelaurenshippen.tumblr.com/post/173694301221/im-gon-come-out-and-ask-was-damien-like-in-love) where lauren says that damien was in love with mark but didn’t have the emotional intelligence to identify it that way. what a fuckin disaster and also what a fun metaphor for that gay moment where you feel Something and A Lot for someone of the same gender but you don’t know What It Is or what to Do With It. so. here’s that! 
> 
> disclaimer that i don’t think damien/damien&mark is Good, just Interesting. anything that reads in a positive way is because it’s written from damien’s perspective and he is just.. unfathomably stupid.

“You _can’t?_ What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The man behind the desk peered out over his computer. “I’m sorry,” he said again, like Damien cared if he was sorry. “We don’t have any rooms with two beds.”

Mark sighed and deflated, his head rolling to rest against the doorframe that propped him up. Damien stood up a little straighter for the both of them. “I didn’t _ask_ if you had any more rooms. I told you to _find_ one.”

The receptionist opened his mouth like he was going to ask Damien to leave, but he barely got as far as meeting his eyes before he was back to typing. Checking again. Because that’s what Damien wanted him to do. 

Somewhere too close, lightning flashed, momentarily competing with the computer for the brightest light in the lobby. Some frustrated, childish impulse encouraged Damien to count it down. 

_1, 2, 3…_

Thunder cracked overhead. Damien was ready for it, but Mark wasn’t — he’d had his eyes closed, missed the warning. To himself or the rain, he mumbled, “Shit.” 

“Shit indeed,” Damien mumbled back. Their accommodations so far hadn’t been lavish by any means — he knew better than to bring them anywhere nice enough to have cameras or security — but this place was easily the worst. With the highway backed up from the storm, though, they weren’t going to get anywhere better. 

So it would do. Just for tonight. If this idiot could find them a room, which seemed less and less likely with every passing second. Pressure built up in his skull like steam trapped under a lid, condensing into something noxious. As tired as he was, there was no excuse for a show of will this pathetic. If he couldn’t get a random fucking receptionist to give him a room, what chance did he have of keeping Mark once he was strong enough to leave? He took a deep breath, reached out, grasped for the edges of the man’s consciousness, pulled it toward his—

“I’m sorry, sir, the only rooms we have available are kings. One bed, I mean…”

A groan escaped his throat and he pushed off the counter. “You know what? Nevermind. I’ll go get a room myself, you useless—“

Mark caught his arm. “Damien.”

“What?” he snapped. 

“We’re not going to find anywhere else and I’m too tired for this. Just get the king.”

Damien opened his mouth — he didn’t _want_ a room with one bed — but as he turned toward Mark, his jaw snapped shut. Soaked through with rainwater or sweat or some combination of the two, he looked even frailer than usual. He was barely keeping his legs under him, barely holding his head up.

Hours of internet research flashed before his eyes. Long-term coma patients were at a considerable risk for broken bones, especially at this stage of recovery, when they were strong enough to stand but not strong enough to do it well. 

He didn’t want a room with one bed, but he wanted Mark to collapse even less. A broken hip was a setback they didn’t need. 

“Damien,” Mark said again. 

He sighed through his nose and turned back to the receptionist. “Fine,” he said, “We’ll take whatever you got.”

***

Back in the day, Damien had seen plenty of terrible motel rooms, and this could’ve been any one of them. Their duffle bag took up so much of the floor that he had to hop over it to get to the bathroom, which was so small that the door opened into the shower. Not that it mattered, because the shower was busted, producing more pipey squealing than water. But that was only the most annoying problem in a room full of them: exposed drywall behind the corners of the headboard, and a curtain rod that hung too crooked to hold the curtains shut, and a TV with no remote to control it, and a clock on the nightstand that was off by forty-three inexplicable minutes.

When he couldn’t bear to continue cataloguing all the ways in which the room sucked, he decided, definitively, “This is place blows.” 

Mark made a vaguely agreeable noise from his spot on the bed. He’d thrown himself directly onto the dust-beige duvet, and there he’d stayed, not even bothering to kick off his shoes. 

"The bed that bad too?"

"Huh?" Mark asked.

“You're laying like a corpse.” 

“Oh. Yeah. Definitely the bed,” Mark said, voice tilted like a joke but too strained to carry. “Not the two years of muscle atrophy or anything.”

Most nights, they made time to do what Mark had dubbed ‘Coma Calisthenics.’ Stretching, strength-building, stuff the internet said was supposed to help him bounce back from all that time spent horizontal. Already it had made a difference; it’d been two weeks since he’d needed help washing his hair, and they’d ditched the crutches a few days ago now that he was confident he didn’t need them. He could open his own water bottles, and carry a backpack, and sometimes, on really good days, he even laughed without wincing. 

It’d be no time before he was totally better. Until he could run, or drive, or use his power again. Until he could use Damien’s. Until they could use it together.

But tonight, Damien wasn’t going to push it. Instead, he rooted through the duffle bag, found the bottle of ibuprofen, and tossed it onto the bed. It rolled into Mark’s side, right where his shirt rode up on his hip. Without opening his eyes, he shook a few pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry. “Thanks,” he said. 

“No problem.” He started to pull out the rest of it — a toothbrush, a change of clothes — and then realized the futility of it all. There was no use in getting cleaned up just to sleep on the floor, especially when the carpet was a fundamentally grimy shade of green-gray. “Throw those back,” Damien said, “Gonna need 'em for the broken back I’m gonna have in the morning.”

Mark didn’t throw them back; he put them on the nightstand. “Don’t be stupid.”

“What, you’ve never slept on the floor before? It’ll ruin your neck for days.”

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“It’s fine,” Damien said, “I was mostly joking.”

“It’s stupid,” Mark said again. “You spent fifteen hours driving today. You deserve a bed just as much as I do.”

“ _I’m_ not recovering from a supernatural coma.”

“No, but _I’m_ going to have to listen to you whine all day tomorrow if your neck hurts.”

“I— I don’t _whine_.”

“Then what do you call this?”

Damien’s mouth was open, but he didn’t know what he was planning to say, so he just cleared his throat and shrugged. “Hey, fine. If you insist.”

“Can you call the front desk guy and see if we can get more blankets?”

Right. Like Damien would ever _call_ to _ask_ for something. Sometimes it was like Mark forgot how his ability worked. “Why? Don’t think we can share?”

“ _I_ can, but I don’t think _you_ can.”

“Hey!” Damien said, but he could only be so offended when it was so true. Something warmed pleasantly inside him. Maybe Mark did know him after all. “Whatever. Scoot over, wise guy.”

Mark did, limply, with a groan. Damien killed the light on the nightstand and then flopped down next to him.

“I’m just kidding,” Mark said. “I’m sure it’s fine. There was this guy I dated in college who had nightmares — worse than me, if you can believe it — and he’d, like… kick. I woke up on the floor at least twice a week.”

Whatever was warm inside him cooled just as quickly. When Mark said things like that, things so _normal_ , it was impossible not to doubt the whole plan. Even when he got better and could mimic his power, would it be the same? Damien never went to college, never had a boyfriend who kicked in his sleep — couldn’t’ve. The hard part wasn’t having the power; it was _always_ having it — it was never having anything else, except everything he ever wanted. 

God, Mark was lucky. _His_ power never stopped anyone from loving him. Really, it only made everyone want him more. 

Rain broke against the roof. A slow rumble of thunder broke against the rain. Mark said, “Do we have a problem, Damien?”

Damien blinked at the ceiling, now too dark to see. “What?”

“Every time I mention that I’ve dated men, you get all weird and quiet.”

“ _What?_ No I don’t.”

“You just did.”

“Christ, Mark, I’m not a bigot. Why would I give a shit if you’re gay?”

“Because people do. Sometimes.” He didn’t say what times, but Damien could guess. Sometimes. Like when you’re living out of the same duffle bag and sharing most of the clothes inside it. Like when you see each other fresh out of the shower every day. Like when you’re lying in the same bed, on top of the same sheet. “And, anyway, I’m not. Gay, I mean. I’m bisexual.”

Right. _Sam._ How could he forget. But he didn’t want to talk about Sam — didn’t want to think about Sam — didn’t want Mark to either. He rolled up on his side, putting his back to Mark. “Hey, whatever, man. None of it makes any difference to me.”

“So… we’re… cool?”

“Yeah, god, of course.”

“Okay. Just… don’t be a dick.”

Damien pitched his voice down. “Why not? Aren’t you into that?”

A laugh sparked off of Mark, warming the air all around them. “Oh my god, shut up,” he said, shoving blindly at Damien, nearly knocking him off the bed. 

Damien rolled to elbow back, not realizing he was smiling until he heard it in his own voice. “Gladly.”

***

Damien woke up with his heart pounding, a primitive response to the sound of panicked breaths in the dead of night. Squinting awake, his brain grasped at what it could find: the itch of motel sheets under him; the porous edge of Mark’s mind pressed up against his own; the small green glow of the alarm clock; the thin yellow stripe of hallway light between the curtains; Mark’s shadow struggling to sit upright beside him.

The details slid into place along angles, piecing together into a familiar shape. It was far from the first time Mark had woken up at 4 am with a nightmare. Normally, though, he dealt with it on his own — sat in the shower or raided the minibar and insisted he didn’t want to talk about it, once he could breathe again to say so. 

But tonight was different than other nights. No shower. No minibar. One bed. 

Damien reached toward the lamp, but Mark found his voice before he could find the switch. “No, don’t,” he managed. 

Slowly, he pulled his hand back, leaving the light off. 

The bed squealed as Mark got to his feet. “I— I gotta get some air.”

“No,” Damien said, like grabbing for something as it fell; a reflex. 

“Please,” Mark said, like he was drowning; desperate. 

And right then, Damien felt it too. Desperate. Whether it was empathy or concern or contagion, he didn’t know, but whatever it was, it meant that Mark didn’t need his permission for this. He could just walk out the door, because right then, Damien couldn’t want to stop him.

His heart pounded dumbly. He couldn’t just let him leave. “I’ll come with you.”

Mark didn’t protest. Just slugged some water off the nightstand and headed for the door. 

By the time they got there, Damien’s eyes had adjusted. He watched as Mark’s fingers glanced off the lock, once and then again, too shaky to get it undone. 

“Fuck,” he said, at the same time Damien said, “I got it.”

Damien opened the door, and before he closed it behind him, Mark was halfway across the parking lot. It had stopped raining, but the storm still lingered, electric in the air, blotting out the stars. There were puddles as dark as oil slicks on the pavement, just asking to be slipped in, so he caught up to Mark quickly as he limped away from the motel and out toward nothing.

There was no one else around, because why would there be. It was far too late, or far too early. The highway was too far away to see or hear, and every room on this side of the building was dark inside. The only signs of life were traces of stale cigarette smoke and echoes of exhaust, clinging to his skin like humidity and memories. 

Shitty motels hadn’t changed at all in ten years. Sometimes, he thought nothing had. 

Except, there was Mark. His shuffling steps and his shallows breaths. In the dark, he was mostly featureless, but Damien had been looking at him in his passenger seat for long enough now to easily reconstruct details of his silhouette: his messy hair, his tired eyes, the curve of his nose and the set of his jaw and the wrinkle in his lip that always showed up when he was thinking or focusing or in pain.

It was uncanny, sometimes, how much he looked like his sister. 

He liked Mark a lot better. 

They walked until the edge of the lot, where wet pavement met soggy grass. Only there did Mark’s breathing start to level out. 

But the tension never left his shoulders. Like he was bracing for a blow that could still come at any second.

Was it the AM? It had to be, right? Damien had had enough dreams of his own to know what made good nightmares, and from what he’d seen of the AM, it’d be perfect. 

Through his teeth, Mark said, “Can you stop that?”

“What?”

“Wanting me to talk about it.”

“I’m not—“

“I can feel it, Damien.”

“I told you before, I can’t help it—“

“Just—“ He bit off whatever he was going to say and replaced it with a rough sigh. On the exhale, a sliver of moonlight fell through the clouds, illuminating him just enough to render him unrecognizable. But the moment and the moonlight were fleeting, leaving nothing but needles in Damien’s stomach and more darkness and Mark’s words, quieter now. “In my dreams, I’m still in 1810. And this is the dream, and that’s real.”

The misplaced urge to laugh fought up Damien’s throat and he only barely managed to stop it. This whole thing, the leaving and the running and the having someone by his side, was more real than anything had been in years, or in a decade, or maybe ever — and for a heartbeat, he wanted to tell Mark that. Wanted Mark to feel that way too. But the silence was getting too long, and all he could come up with was, “That’s ridiculous. Of course this is real.”

Mark looked down at the ground, a smile cracking his voice in two. “Easy for you to say.”

And then Damien saw it. Even in the dark, or maybe especially in the dark, it was impossible not to notice an absence in Mark. A light that should’ve been there, but wasn’t; that had been lost or left behind or taken. 

Damien didn’t like it. Didn’t want Mark to be broken, to feel broken. “Hey,” he said, stepping in front of him, stilling a hand on his shoulder — damp cotton, hot skin, sharp bone. “1810 is done. The AM is done. All of that is behind you, and you’re getting stronger every day. Soon you’ll be able to use my power, and then nobody can make you do anything you don’t want to do, or go anywhere you don’t want to go, or…”

Mark’s shoulder tightened under Damien’s hand as he picked his chin up, met his eye. In a heartbeat, Damien knew he’d been wrong. What had looked like absence or darkness wasn’t, not at all. Maybe it was buried deep, but Damien saw it now — couldn’t unsee it — couldn’t look away. 

Mark was bright. Painfully, terrifyingly. Bright like burning.

He was more furious than Damien had ever seen, except maybe in the mirror. 

“Yeah?” Mark said. His voice was calm, quiet, somehow. “And until then?”

Something took shape — a moment, a breath, a gaze, hotter than the summer air but frozen in between them. It was so real he could reach out and touch it; so clear he could see his reflection in it; so sharp he could cut himself wide open. 

He wanted to. He didn’t. The words slipped off his tongue. “Until then… you’ve got me.”

Mark’s eyes flicked down just a little, just an inch, just enough, and cracks splintered through Damien. He wanted— he didn’t know what he wanted, couldn’t find it, but his stomach plummeted, hopeless, helpless, because whatever it was, Mark wanted it too, and it was too much to bear. 

Mark shrugged out from under his hand and turned away. 

The world narrowed to frantic pinpoints and a pain in his chest. 

He wanted Mark not to leave. 

“Wait—“

Mark stumbled and Damien reached out, or Damien reached out and Mark stumbled. Either way, he caught himself without any help, and when he looked back, he was lightless again, his fire lost to exhaustion. “What, Damien?”

Around the heartbeat in his throat, Damien managed, “Just, uh— be careful, man.”

“I’m fine,” Mark said, like it was true. But he walked slower anyway, and Damien walked next to him, side-by-side, even though each step felt unsure, even though his heart kept on pounding, even though he couldn’t shake the uneasiness uncoiling inside of him. 

At the doorway, Mark stopped. “Thanks,” he said, “For getting me out of there. For taking care of me. I mean it.”

A broken glow flickered through Damien’s stomach, like embers kicked to life. It made the rest of him feel colder by comparison. “Yeah, well, you’re gonna end up back in a hospital bed if you don’t get some rest. C’mon.”

Mark sighed, nodding his hair into his eyes and shouldering the door open. While Damien relocked it, Mark shrugged off his shirt, kicked off his shoes, and got under the covers. 

Damien shivered and did the same. 

***

The sun rose early, flooding the room with heat through the gap in the curtains. 

Damien woke up all at once, but he didn’t open his eyes, because he didn’t need to. The sheets smelled like the walk they took— like bitter morning breath— like body. He knew exactly where he was. 

Something burned in his throat, like a magnifying glass held up to the light. He should get up. Start packing their things, putting more distance between them and the AM, them and Dr. B, them and the whole rest of the world. 

But Mark was breathing beside him — even, soft little sighs. Resting peacefully for once. Close enough that he could feel the sheets rise and fall. Close enough that he’d only have to twitch his fingers to feel his skin. 

He didn’t, though. Didn’t move a muscle; didn’t dare to. 

With a few hours of sleep between then and now, with light washing the inside of his eyelids red, last night seemed insensible, intangible. Unreal. Like a dream. 

But this, right now, was like a dream too. The kind of dream he’d stopped having a long time ago. The kind of dream he didn’t know he missed. Maybe dreams and reality weren’t always so different after all. Maybe he did understand what Mark meant last night.

But there was something else. He saw it again, the look in Mark’s eye, the anger. Felt it again, the flush of heat through his body, like a sunrise but twice as violent. 

Maybe Mark understood him, too.

An itch crawled up his spine. They really should get moving. 

But it’d only be a few more minutes until Mark woke up and everything started all over again. Back to leaving, back to running, back to highways and takeout and the next motel and the one after that. Real life. 

With no end in sight, he could afford to lay there a little longer. If he wanted. 

He didn’t know if he wanted. Didn’t know what he wanted. Only that he’d get it, in the end, because he always did. 

For the first time in a long time, the thought wasn’t comforting. But he held tight to it anyway, because it was all he had. 

By his side, Mark stirred, hiking the blanket toward himself and leaving Damien uncovered in the process. Goosebumps chased up his skin, but he felt himself smile, just a little. 

Well, maybe not _all_ he had.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! i hope you enjoyed it, and comments or feedback always mean the world to me!! 
> 
> if you want to talk more about how damien is the most tragic and infuriating of dumbasses, or how mark deserves the world, or anything else tbs-related, you can add me on discord at izzylizardborn#2435!


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